


The Woman Who Counted Three Years

by Nuraicha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, POV First Person, Post Reichenbach, Spoilers for series 3 teaser trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuraicha/pseuds/Nuraicha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years have passed since Sherlock's "death" and Molly Hooper's life is same as ever.</p><p>(Spoilers for series 3 teaser trailer)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman Who Counted Three Years

**Author's Note:**

> The teaser trailer for series 3 left me shocked and with more ideas for Sherlock fic, so I couldn't help myself and I ended writing this the night it was released. It's my first time writing Molly and my first Sherlock fic since a year, but I like the result and I hope you like it too :)
> 
> Thanks to my beta, Veronica (cricketcrazy2101.tumblr.com), because without her I wouldn't post any fic in English! I love you so much!

Nothing could have anticipated that something unusual was going to happen today. My routine was same as ever: waking up at 6:30 in the morning, shower, breakfast, feed the cat, work. Corpses were normal, just casual or natural deaths, nothing criminal or at least suspicious enough for me. Rain was pouring since dawn and for once I was relieved I didn’t have time for lunch in that nice café near the hospital. Truth be told, it was so close to… _the spot_ for comfort, but with the passing of months I’ve recovered from the impression it had caused on me.

I was lucky enough for that, because I was part of the secret.

It has been so hard knowing and not being able to speak about it, especially at the funeral. It had been very quiet, with only a few people present, and without any press, probably thanks to his brother’s influence. The coffin was closed and I was grateful for that: I was afraid the truth would reflect in my face if I had to see the corpse that I myself had to prepare in order to fake his death.

The worst part of it was the guilt. Seeing John standing next to me, clearly devastated and destroyed, and having to bite my tongue in order not to tell him he was alive. He had been very adamant with that condition: nobody could know, and less him.

When I arrived at home I couldn’t help but start crying, thinking of John’s pained face when he had told me “thank you” for being there.

Part of me had been hopeful he would communicate with me somehow, at least a text once, but he was silent like he was really dead. I have cried many nights at the thought he might have _actually_ been dead at any point during these years and nobody would know it. Why if he had died? Nobody would ever know, and John would be all his life thinking his best friend was a suicide fraud.

But, life went on. Even if I’ll never recover from those terrible days, I could continue with my life. Everybody succeeded at it: Lestrade kept being a D.I., Mrs. Hudson found new lodgers (but neither of them rested long, she was always finding “several” faults in their behavior) and John started to going out with a lovely woman, Mary. Myself, I dated a man for almost eight months, even if at the end it didn’t work.

We were happy, as happy as you can be when your friend, one of the best human beings that existed on this planet, had killed himself. We had moved on, although I could see how much Lestrade missed Sherlock when he came to the morgue or that everlasting hint of sadness in John’s eyes every time we met (which didn’t happen as much as before; I was convinced he was trying to avoid all of us, because we reminded him of his lost friend).

Three years had passed. Three long years filled with normality.

Until today.

 

My shift had finally ended. When I looked through a window, I noticed the rain had finally stopped; I didn’t want to go for a walk though, because it was dark and the rain could re-start again at any moment, the weather at this time of the year was totally unpredictable.

The changing room was empty, most of the workers had already gone, and I was indeed the last one on this floor: time had flown while I was filling in forms for my last autopsy.

A dim light filled the room, but I didn’t mind because I was tired of that awful hospital white light after spending all day between those walls. Silence was only broken by my fingers searching for my locker key in a pocket of my lab coat, the sound of the lock opening making me shiver without any reason.

I opened the locker door.

At first I thought I had gone mad, my mind was clearly tricking me. Then I stared at him through the mirror, asking myself if he was this tall the last time I had seen him. It couldn’t be true.

“Molly”, his deep voice astonished me, my knees going so weak that I had to hold myself at the locker.

It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be here, all normal and casual and tall and impressive and handsome and –

“Molly”, he repeated, taking one step towards me.

I kept staring at him through the mirror, his blue eyes fixed on me, serious but with a look of… concern?

It couldn’t be. I don’t count. Why he was here? What did he need this time? How I could help him? What did I have to do? Was he alright? Was he hurt? Was he really here?

Suddenly he was right behind me, a hesitant hand placed on my right shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his face a pure mask of confusion and doubt.

He didn’t know what to say or to do, I could feel it. My stillness and muteness a case he didn’t know how to handle. Human feelings.

He was back. He was really here and he was still _him_.

Sherlock had returned.

Without thinking, I turned quickly, throwing my arms around his neck and hugging him tight.

I couldn’t help myself and I started crying.

He moved his hand to my hair, petting it like if I was a cat, his whole body language screaming ‘awkward’, but he didn’t try to stop me.

After what it felt like another year, I could separate myself from him, stumbling back against the lockers, my cheeks redder than ever, full of embarrassment.

“Oh God. Oh God, I’m so sorry. Oh my God. Forgive me! I… sorry. But you… you really? Oh my God. You should… are you? Sherlock I –”

“Molly”, Sherlock stopped my rambling just pronouncing my name, trying to be patient.

“You… are you back?” I asked, my voice trembling with emotion, trying so hard to hold back more tears.

He looked melancholic for a second, his eyes unfocused. Then he slowly nodded, a small smile forming in his lips.

“Yes, Molly Hooper. I’m back”.

I smiled so hard my cheeks started to sting, but I couldn’t care anymore

He had returned, at last. Now he would prove the world he was the hero I always saw in him.


End file.
